


How Batman Made The Housemaid Cry

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Alfred have the world's most awkward conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Batman Made The Housemaid Cry

Bruce adjusted the tilt of his tie in the mirror and frowned at it with distaste. Tonight's hospital benefit would be exceptionally tedious, but there was no evading it. His mood was worsening by the moment, not least because it was obvious Alfred wanted to talk to him about something, and it was just as obvious it would not be pleasant. Alfred held the tray of cufflinks beside him, and he turned to ponder them with an aggrieved sigh.

"Sir," said Alfred. "There is a situation with the staff that has come to my attention."

"Mm." He weighed the lapis against the malachite, and both against the monogrammed sterling. Idly his fingers strayed over the plainer, more staid onyx-and-gold, but tonight was probably not the night for them. 

"Are you listening, sir?"

"I"m always listening, Alfred. Which staff?"

"It's the upstairs housemaid, sir. I'm afraid she is in tears."

"Crying people are your department."

"Yes, sir, I understand that, sir. But in this instance, I really think this is a matter for your attention."

"And why is that?" He palmed the malachite and its matching studs, and slipped the first one through the left cuff, extending his right for Alfred to finish.

"Because you are the one who has made her cry, sir."

"What?" He did look up at that. "That's ridiculous. I would never make Vilka cry."

"I understand that, sir. But the upstairs house maid is not named Vilka."

"What?" Bruce set down the studs with a scowl. "I think I know the name of my own upstairs maid. Her name is Vilka."

"Yes, sir. Vilka has, as they say, left us to pursue other career options."

"What? You mean to tell me Vilka _left_?" He pulled his tie off in dissatisfaction and flicked through the tie-tray for one of softer texture. "Why on earth would you let her do that?"

"I agree that it is a tragic situation, sir, and one I would have sought to prevent, but most inconveniently serfdom has been outlawed."

"I would have appreciated knowing about this sooner, Alfred. When did she give her notice?"

"Six years ago, sir."

Bruce considered this. "You're telling me Vilka has been gone since 2010."

"Yes, sir."

"How many upstairs housemaids have we had since then?"

"Three, sir."

"And I've been calling them all Vilka since 2010?"

"That is correct, sir."

He shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would Vilka leave?"

"Well as I said, sir, she chose to follow another path in life. One a little less stable and lucrative than the position she had with us, I'm afraid, but she does drop the odd line now and again, and I think she will be all right eventually."

"Does she need anything?" Bruce returned to fiddling with the studs. "What is she doing?"

"She is currently finishing her PhD in neurobiology at Johns Hopkins."

"Oh." Bruce considered the ensemble of cufflinks and studs in the mirror. Alfred extended the watch case. "Well. I guess if she couldn't find any other work."

"Yes, sir. Allow me to point out, sir, that if you paid your upstairs housemaids wages commensurate with their employment—"

"Alfred. We've had this discussion."

Alfred sighed. "Yes, sir. I am aware, sir. But this is the sort of thing you must expect, if you pay your housemaids the same salary you pay mid-level engineers at Wayne Tech. They will inevitably set aside enough money to pursue their dreams, which most usually do not involve waxing your floors, and in short order you are left learning the names of a new set of housemaids. Or not, in your case. The current upstairs housemaid is named Merav."

Bruce let his fingers wander over the watches. "The antique tray, I think, tonight."

"Very good, sir." Alfred replaced the tray with another, smaller one.

"And this one claims I made her cry? Well, you've got yourself a hysteric on your hands, Alfred. I can guarantee you I have never said anything to Merav, and I probably couldn't pick her out of a police line-up. What the hell does she think I did?"

Alfred was brushing the coat before he held it out, so his face was turned away from Bruce. "You washed your sheets, sir."

Bruce's hand froze over the watch tray. He said nothing. "Sir," said Alfred.

"It was—"

"Sir. She believes she has displeased you. She is very eager to please."

"All right," Bruce said. "I will. . . apologize to her tomorrow. Please tell her. . . I'm not displeased."

He extended his arms, and Alfred slid on the coat. He continued brushing the back of it. "May we have a conversation, sir, as one man to another?"

Bruce was silent. He did not fool himself that Alfred took his silences as anything other than humble acquiescence. 

"Bruce," said Alfred, and Bruce turned in shock, because he could count on one hand the number of times Alfred had addressed him shorn of honorific. Alfred's gaze was earnest and kind, and it made Bruce drop his eyes, as only Alfred's gaze could. "I am aware of why your sheets require more regular washing now. All you needed to say was, Alfred, have the sheets in my room changed daily instead of every third day."

Somehow he still found himself studying the carpet near Alfred's shoes. He nodded. "It, ah. . . "

Alfred cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. "Are you ashamed, sir?"

Bruce considered this. "No," he said, discovering it was true as he said it. "It's just—the housemaid. It. . ." He winced. 

"If I take over cleaning of your room, Merav will wonder why, and she will assume it is because she has not done her job satisfactorily. And to be perfectly frank, sir, I have enough to do in the rest of the house without worrying about your linens because you're too embarrassed to let the upstairs housemaid know you've had sex on them."

"Look, it's just a bit. . . more to clean than. . . it isn't. . ."

"Yes, sir, I understand the biology of what happens when two male individuals achieve sexual fulfillment. I think my delicate sensibilities can survive the assault. But if this is to be part of your life now, then it must be part of your life here, not hidden away in some rat-infested hole-and-corner cold-water ghetto walk-up in God knows where."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "That's quite the opinion of Hal's apartment you have there. But I take your point. Can I now pretend we never had this conversation, and that I never heard you use the phrase 'sexual fulfillment?'"

"I would tell you to bugger off, sir, but given our conversation that would be both indelicate and redundant."

Bruce groaned, and tipped his head into his hands. "Please just call the board of Gotham General and tell them I can't attend tonight. Please just. . . end me now."

Alfred gave a wry chuckle and a final brush to the coat. "There you are, sir. Spiff as ever. Will you require a driver tonight, or do you prefer to be on your own?"

"A driver, I think, if you don't mind. I won't be late, but a magnum or two of champagne is the only thing that makes this event survivable."

"Very good, sir." Alfred was humming lightly to himself, as he often did, while he righted the various trays and slid them back into their shelves. Bruce sat on the dressing room bench and picked up a shoe cloth from Alfred's stack, idly rubbing at an imaginary spot on the heel. 

"Alfred."

"Yes, sir?"

"May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, sir."

He paused before he asked, not for effect but because it was so difficult to get out his throat. "You haven't said what you think."

"Ah." There were two benches in the dressing room, bracketing the wide mirror. Alfred came now and sat on the one directly opposite Bruce, nodding as though he had been asked a very interesting question. Bruce knew that look. It was the look a far older and wiser person gave a younger one who had asked a difficult question, or at least, one that deserved a careful answer.

 _Alfred, do you believe in heaven?_

And the careful re-settling of the small thin shoulders into the crook of Alfred's arm as he weighed his answer. _Well, that's not an easy question, Master Bruce._

"What I think," Alfred said. 

"We are from different places and times, I would understand if you—"

"Hush now, don't interrupt."

"Yes, sir."

"What I think," he began again, "is, I think of your mother."

"My mother."

"Yes. You see, I've always worried, a great deal, about what I am going to say to her, when I see her. She was always asking me to look after you, sir. Alfred, you look after Bruce, make sure he's all right. Almost every day, that's what she would say to me. And the home truth of it is, sir, I've not wanted to face her, because I've done a piss-poor job keeping you safe, haven't I?"

"Alfred—"

"Hush. I have, there's no denying it. I've let you put yourself in more danger than your mother could ever have foreseen, than I could ever have foreseen when you began. . . doing what you do. You're brilliant at it, of course, but it will get you killed, sooner or late. We both know that. And then probably not too long after something will happen to me, and then I'll have your mother to face. It's something I think about, quite a lot, you know."

He found nothing to say to that; nothing his treacherous throat would let him try, at any rate. Alfred was nodding again. "But you see," he said. "I don't worry about it quite as much as I did before. Seeing you as you are now—no one much beside me would know that it's happiness, but I know it, I see it. So I don't worry, like I did. Because while your mother will undoubtedly have a great deal to reproach me with, a great deal of pain and misery in your life to hold me rightly accountable for, there is also this. Because I can say to her, but look how much love he found. Just look at it."

Now he knew he could not speak. He clenched and unclenched his hand on his knee. Alfred rose lightly, the leather of the bench creaking. "I'll just go bring the car round," he said. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, the lightest of touches. 

"I wish I could believe what you believe," Bruce said. "About the inevitability of future meetings."

"Well. Why don't I believe for the both of us, then."

Bruce nodded, and Alfred's thumb rubbed the back of his head, and Bruce tipped his head forward to rest against the firm thin pillar of Alfred, who wrapped his arms around him and held him. "I think the lapis tonight, sir," he said.

"All right," he said into Alfred's waistcoat. "I'll change them."

"Good boy." Alfred patted his back and released him. "I'll go bring that car round then. And mind the hour. There's a Dr. Who marathon tees off at 11:30, and I'd hate to miss the first episode. I'll wager it will be heavy on the ninth doctor, which is my preference. What can I say, I'm a loyal fan."

"You know," Bruce said, thoughtfully. "There are those who would say that Batman is considerably cooler than Dr. Who."

"And are you a time lord, sir? No, I do not think you are. So that will be an end of that sort of presumptuous talk. Now then. Just for that remark about the Doctor we'll drive British tonight, I think. Bentley or Jaguar?"

Bruce waved a rueful hand. "Dealer's choice."

"Very good, sir." And Alfred set off down the hall, his light hum becoming an unconscious mild whistle—a nameless British martial tune, the background noise of Bruce's childhood. 

He pulled his cell out of his inner pocket and texted. _Remind me to tell you about my conversation with Alfred_ , he said. _And then please use your ring to erase my functional memory. Do whatever you have to do_. He smiled as he felt the answering buzz, and headed out the door of the dressing room, plucking an overcoat from the peg.

He didn't own a Rolls, because they were ponderous ungainly things, but he was determined now to buy one for the sole pleasure of removing the ridiculous winged figure on its prow and replacing it with a Dr. Who bobblehead. An easy day's work to blame Damian for that one; raising an unmitigated hellion had its benefits. 

He trotted down the stairs, humming a riff off Alfred's regimental melody, good humor curiously restored.


End file.
